England
by dederants
Summary: It's post-Reichenbach, and John Watson has moved out of 221B Baker Street in order to move on from Sherlock, but the past continues to haunt him. Will a chance encounter with a handsome stranger in a coffee shop change things for the better?


_Someone send a runner through the weather that I'm under_

_for the feeling that I lost today_

_Someone send a runner for the feeling that I lost today_

"Where are you, Sherlock?" John said to himself as he sat by the window of a quiet coffee shop, sipping on hot tea. It's been a few weeks since he last visited Sherlock's 'grave' with Mrs. Hudson, who still thought the Super Sleuth was dead. That day, she'd asked John if he would come back to 221B to clear out Sherlock's things. "No, I couldn't come back there," he replied. _It'd hurt too much_, he thought.

_You must be somewhere in London_

_You must be loving your life in the rain_

_You must be somewhere in London_

_walking Abbey Lane._

John took another sip of his tea, and as he put his cup down on the table, he got this... weird gut feeling that someone was watching him. As much as he wanted to believe i was Sherlock, he figured it may have been Mycroft (or someone working for him) keeping tabs on him from afar. John looked out the window, surveying the surroundings for good measure, but couldn't find anything out of the ordinary in the neighborhood.

His gut feeling hits him again. "What is happening?" John whispered.

Just then, a tall, dark figure in jeans and a dark grey hoodie walked through the open doorway of the coffee shop and headed straight for the register. John observed the man, watching every little move that he made, paying attention to each small detail about the stranger. John wasn't Sherlock, obviously, but it didn't hurt to try his hand at deduction from time to time. The stranger was a dirty blonde with extremely handsome features on his clean-shaven face: cheekbones and a pronounced jawline to die for, and deep blue eyes that resembled swimming pools. They were quite like Sherlock's, but more... majestic.

But compared to Sherlock, the stranger's nose wasn't as slightly dainty, nor were his lips as full and supple, and they lacked the cupid's bow the particular cupid's bow that John was so used to lightly brushing his thumb against while Sherlock slept. If the man even got any sleep.

Nonetheless, this stranger was very good-looking. John had seen his fair share of attractive men, before and after Sherlock came into his life. He swore off checking out other lads after Sherlock's departure, but there was something about _this_ man John found intriguing.

The man noticed John staring at him, and John quickly spun around to look outside at the passersby on the street, his face growing red out of embarrassment. Instead of getting angry or offended, however, the man walked over to John's table, a wide, closed-mouth smile that lit up his face. Upon reaching the table, the stranger greeted John with a light-hearted, "Hello!", making the army doctor jump in his seat. John turned around and looked up at the man, guilt overcoming him.

"I'm so sorry for gawking at you. It's just-" He couldn't think of how to complete the sentence.

"It's alright," said the stranger. "I tend to get that a lot, mainly from young girls, so I'm used to it." His smile was so infectious that John couldn't help but do the same. "What's your name?"

"John." It's been so long since he'd introduced himself on a first-name basis. "Dr. John Watson."

"Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson."

"Oh, you can just call me John." _I must have a fever or something_, John thought.

"Okay, John. I'm Tom. Tom Hiddleston." _Tom_. John's brain repeated that name five times; he made sure he remembered it.

"Nice to meet you, Tom. So what brings you here?" _I need to keep this man engaged in order to keep him at this table_, John thought. _Oh, I've really gone mental._

"Nice, hot cup of java before work," Tom replied.

"Oh, where do you work?"

"Well, I'm an actor, yet the work that I'm doing is a photo-shoot for Harper's Bazaar."

"That sounds like fun." It's apparent that John doesn't keep up with the goings-on in the film industry, especially with his mind always on Sherlock. 'I'm guessing you've decided to give your assistant the day off."

"Oh," Tom said with a chuckle. That smile. "I won't be seeing her until I get to the photoshoot. I figured I'd have some time to myself beforehand."

"Well, if you want to be alone, I'll leave you to it," said John, but as John rose from his chair to leave, Tom reached out with a hand to John's chest.

"No, you don't have to leave. It's rather nice talking to someone, especially a doctor." This made John's heart flutter for a second, but he made sure not to show it. Tom's hand to his chest, however, sent a chill down John's spine.

_Put an ocean and a river between everybody else_

_Between everything, yourself, and home_

_Put an ocean and a river between everything, yourself, and home_

Once John sat down, the two men talked about loads of things, from Tom's recent projects to exchanging stories about the goings-on in local news and politics, books they're read as well as recommendations, and great places to eat that one or the other had yet to try. Neither looked at the shop's clock or their own watches for two hours straight; the only signal of prolonged time lapse was when Tom's assistant called him, reminding his of his engagement and asking him where he was so she could pick him up to get to the photo-shoot in time for prep.

"I'm sorry for having to cut this short-" said Tom once he got off the phone.

"It's quite alright," understood John. "You're an important man with places to be."

Tom got up from the table to leave, but when John did the same to politely shake his hand and wish him luck, his thigh hit the table hard enough to knock over his own tea, spilling onto the front of his jeans. Tom, assuming he was at fault, ran to the register, grabbed as many napkins as he could, and ran back to John's table.

"I'm so very sorry about that," said Tom in a panicked tone. He hurriedly wiped down as much tea as he could with the napkins, transferring to John's crotch to clean the mess. John's hand stopped Tom's at the wrist. Tom looked up at John and froze. The two men stared at each other for what felt like eternity.

_God, this man is beautiful_, thought John, _but he shouldn't be touching me. It's too soon..._

There were no other patrons in the coffee shop to witness this, nor were there people outside paying much attention, but they may as well have had prying eyes observing their every move. It felt that way, at least. Neither of them gave a care in the world, and Tom couldn't take his eyes away from John's.

_He looks sad_, thought Tom. _So purely sad. What I would give to bring a smile to this man's face..._

Neither John nor Tom noticed the incessant beeping of a car horn from outside of the shop, but Tom came down to reality once his phone went off again; a text from his assistant, telling him to hurry. This prompted him to grab a pen from the cashier, write something on a napkin, and upon walking out, slam the napkin onto John's table.

As quickly as John noticed the napkin hit the table, Tom was out the door and into the car that sped off in a flash. John's eyes followed the car until it disappeared around a corner two blocks away. Looking from the window to the napkin on the table, he took the napkin and read a note the Tom wrote underneath his cell number:

**I'm really sorry about your tea. Text me your number and I'll treat you to another cuppa. Thank you very much for the company, Tom.**

The last sentence brought a bright smile to John's gloomy face. It was nice to talk to someone again. Anyone. For the first time in a long while, he felt... better. Unfortunately, the feeling would be brief; guilt crept in, and he thought of Sherlock and whether or not it was too soon after his absence to have another person in mind, admittedly a very handsome actor.

"It's not cheating," John said to himself. "He risked his life for me and his closest friends. He'd want me to be happy."

"What was that?" said a feminine voice. It was the barista collecting his dishes along with Tom's drained paper cup and napkins he used to clean up the tea, a mess he never made. "Do you need that napkin?"

"Yes, yes, I do," John replied immediately, stuffing the napkin into his jacket pocket. He looked out the window and smiled warmly, thinking about the day's events. He'd realized he'd gotten slightly aroused while Tom unsuccessfully wiped tea from the front of John's denim trousers, and to stare into those extravagantly blue eyes afterwards... _Collect yourself, John_.

John got up from the table and paid his bill; he walked out of the coffee shop and inhaled the crisp, October air that lingered since the early morning hours. A smile overcame him and he'd gained a pep in his step as he walked to the hotel he was staying in.

From the rooftop of a building directly across the street from the coffee shop, a pair of grayish-blue eyes followed John on his route; Sherlock, with curly, auburn locks overcoming his forehead and clad in a pair of sweatpants and a dark blue t-shirt underneath a thick, black pea coat, then looked down at his phone, an unsent text message to John on the screen:

"John, I've missed you. I know you'll be angry when you find out that I'm still alive, but I need to see you again. Don't tell anyone the details of where I am. - SH"

Sherlock pressed a button on his phone. **Are you sure you want to delete this message?**

A tear caressed Sherlock's pale, sunken cheek as he pressed Yes.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock whispered through his tears. "May that man make you happier than I ever could."

_Famous angels never come through England_

_England gets the ones you never need_

_I'm in a Los Angeles cathedral_

_Minor singing airheads sing for me_


End file.
